The Hammer of the Scots

Chapter II EXIT HENRY ENTER ALFONSO

The whole country seemed to be converging on London for the coronation and Edward was sure that this was one of those occasions when it would be unwise to spare expense. The Queen Mother was in her element. She would have liked to take over all the arrangements and order what was to be done as she had during her husband’s lifetime.

Instead she must content herself with gathering together her family. It was wonderful to know that her daughter Margaret was on her way from Scotland and Beatrice, her other daughter, with her husband, John of Bretagne, would also be present. Then there was her son, Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, who would be with them. In fact every one of her living children would be there. If only her husband were alive she would need nothing more to make her completely happy.

Margaret was her very favourite daughter. Perhaps because when she was young she had suffered such anxieties about her and her strong motherly instincts had been called forth in all their fury because her darling daughter was being ill-treated by those barbarous Scots. Often now she thought of how the child had gone to Scotland, and how she had wept at the parting and clung to her mother and implored to be allowed to stay with her for ever. But they had had to send her and she and Henry had wept together and suffered for their child. And when they had heard that she was being kept a prisoner in that grim Edinburgh Castle and given nothing to eat but their loathsome oaten cakes and a messy mixture they called porridge, Henry, incited by his wife, had been ready to go to war even if it meant defying the barons and tearing up Magna Carta and throwing it in their faces, which, thought the Queen, was the best thing that could happen to that horrible document. They had gone to Scotland; they had rescued their daughter, and she was now reunited with her husband, Alexander, who at that time had been little more than a child himself. And mercy of mercies Margaret was now happy. Yes, she and Alexander were devoted to each other and they had three beautiful children to bless their union. The Queen Mother hoped they would be as happy as she and Henry had been. Margaret was of a gentler temperament than her mother and like the entire family she was indulgent of that overbearing maternal figure. She had a daughter who was very dear to the Queen Mother because the child had been born at Windsor, during that period when Margaret had visited her family and contrived to stay until it was difficult for her in her condition to go back to Scotland. The Scots were not too pleased that their Queen’s eldest child should be born out of Scotland. That it was but a daughter perhaps placated them a little. That child, Margaret after her mother, was now thirteen years old and she had inherited her mother’s beauty. Moreover Margaret had given birth to a son Alexander three years after Margaret’s birth – a beautiful boy and heir to the Scottish throne – and four years ago little David had been born.

How wonderful it would be to have all the grandchildren around so that she could pamper them a little and make sure that they loved their grandmother and at the same time assure herself that their parents were bringing them up in a manner of which she would approve. She loved to admonish them tenderly and they all listened to her and accepted her superior wisdom. Happy days were ahead in spite of her great bereavement.

Then there was Beatrice, her second daughter, who was greatly loved, the wife of John, Earl of Bretagne, a husband who adored her, and they had five beautiful children; Beatrice had accompanied her husband on the crusade and had been with Queen Eleanor at Acre when Joanna had been borne so the two had become as sisters, having shared the discomforts of the nomad life while at the same time they had condoled with each other over the terrible choice they had had to make whether to leave their children or their husbands. Now they would all be united; and there would be more grandchildren for the Queen Mother to take under her wing.

Edmund would also be there – her dear son, the Earl of Lancaster. He was not as popular with the people as his brother Edward was. Naturally, Edward was the King and he had those spectacular good looks. Edward was all Plantagenet – the golden young man with the long limbs of the Normans. People only had to look at him to realise that he was descended from the Conqueror. The English liked strong kings, or they did when they were dead. They had groaned under the harsh laws of the Conqueror, his son, Henry I, and his great-grandson, Henry II, while these kings lived, but when they were dead harshness was called justice, and they were revered. Even so early it seemed apparent that Edward would be a strong king. The Queen Mother’s lips turned out at the corners when she considered that. Edward had shown clearly that he was not going to take her advice. True, he listened to it gravely and sometimes implied that he would follow it; then he went away and did exactly what he wanted to.

Edmund was less tall, less blond, more Provençal than Norman. He suffered from a slight curvature of the spine which it had been impossible to disguise and it had in due course given his enemies the opportunity to call him Crouchback. How angry she had been about that, especially so since there was nothing she could do about it. She found frustration more maddening than anything else.

It had been a matter for congratulation when he had married Aveline de Fortibus, heiress of the Earl of Albemarle, because the marriage should have brought great wealth into the family and shortage of money was a constant complaint. Alas, Aveline had died before she could inherit the fortune and soon afterwards Edmund had taken the cross and gone with his brother to Palestine.

‘We must find a new wife for Edmund,’ she thought; and her energetic mind scoured the ranks of the wealthy.

The greatest joy of all was being with Margaret, and what a pleasure it had been to see her ride into the capital with her husband and her children, for Margaret’s entourage was grander than any. A lesson to Edward, thought the Queen Mother. Was he going to allow the King of Scots to outshine him?

She could not wait to carry Margaret off somewhere where they could be alone. There she embraced this most loved of her children – perhaps in the past she had been inclined to favour Edward. That was natural because he was the eldest and the son, but a mother could be closer to a daughter, and ever since Margaret’s experiences in Scotland when she had been a child bride, the young Queen of Scotland had had the notion that her parents were omnipotent and nothing could be more delightful than such a notion to Eleanor of Provence.

She took her daughter into her arms and examined her closely. Margaret looked a little too delicate for her mother’s comfort.

‘My dearest,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘do you still find the climate harsh?’

‘I grow accustomed to it. The children enjoy it.’

‘Your father was constantly worrying about you. Whenever he saw the snow he would say, “I wonder what is happening north of the Border and if our darling child is suffering from the cold.”’

‘My dear lady mother, you always worried too much about us.’

‘I could never be completely happy unless I knew you were all well and safe, and I shall never forget that dreadful time.’

‘It is all in the past. Alexander is indeed the King now. None would dare cross him.’

‘And he is a good husband to you, my darling.’

‘None could be better. He is as near to my dearest father as anyone could be.’

‘He was incomparable. Margaret, I cannot describe to you how I suffer.’

‘I know, I know. But he would not wish us to brood. He would be happy that Edward is such a fine man and that the people are with him as they never were …’

‘With your father? Oh they were wicked to him. They have been so mean … so parsimonious …’

‘Let us rejoice, Mother, that they seem to have forgotten their grievances. Let us hope that there will be no more uprising of the barons. People will always be ready to remember Simon de Montfort.’

‘That traitor!’

‘He opposed our father, my lady, but I do not think he ever meant to be a traitor. And his death at Evesham was … terrible. I must tell you of something strange that happened. Not long before I received tidings of Edward’s return and that we were to come south for the coronation, we were at Kinlochleven on the banks of the Tay. We were in the banqueting hall, the company talking, as such companies do, of their deeds and adventures, but I was melancholy as I have been since news of my father’s death and I had the wish to escape from their laughter and light chatter.

‘Then the name of Simon de Montfort was mentioned and one of my knights who had sometime since come from England talked of the battle of Evesham at which he had fought, and he boasted that he had struck the first blow which had killed de Montfort. I was weary of all the talk and I rose from the table and said that I would take a walk along by the river. My attendants came with me and among them was this knight. They saw that I was depressed for this talk of Simon de Montfort had reminded me of my father, and I kept thinking of that dreadful day when the news had come to me of his death. I fell into such melancholy that one of my women said they should play games to raise my spirits. So they did. The men wrestled together and there were contests of leaping and jumping and climbing the trees. Their antics were funny and I found myself laughing. The knight who had brought up the subject of Simon de Montfort was the winner of most of the sports, and one of my women said that I should bestow on him a mark of approval so I said I would give him my glove. They wanted a ceremony. He was to come and take it from me. As he stood beside me he looked down at his hands which were mudstained and he bowed low and said, “Gracious lady, I could not touch your hand in this state. Give me permission to go to the river and wash my hands.” I granted that permission. It was a sort of mock ceremony, you see. And when he bent over to wash his hands I signed to one of my women to push him into the river. This she did and there was much laughter. The knight turned to smile with us. “What care I?” he cried. “I can swim.” Then he began to show us all that he could be as skilled in the water as on land, and he cut all sorts of graceful figures as he moved away from the bank. We applauded and I called out that he was asking for further trophies. Then suddenly something happened. It was as though the waters were stirred by some invisible hand to form a whirlpool. He gave a wild cry and disappeared. His little page must have thought his master was calling for him and he ran down to the river and went in, swimming towards the spot where his master had disappeared. In a moment he too was out of sight.

‘“It is a game,” I said. “Our clever knight is trying to show us how clever he is.”

‘We waited, half laughing, expecting every second to see him rise and swim for the shore with his little page. It took us some time to realise that we should never see them again and to realise that our innocent frolic had ended in tragedy. We never discovered the body of the knight nor that of his page.’

‘My dear child, what a dreadful story! What was this whirlpool which suddenly appeared in the river?’

‘That we did not know, my lady. But I tell you this to let you know how the people – even of Scotland – remember Simon de Montfort. They said that Heaven was angry. That de Montfort was a saint and this was Heaven’s revenge on this knight because he had boasted of his part in the murder.’

‘There will always be those to attach significance in these matters. De Montfort was no saint. He was a traitor who rose against your father. That is something for which I shall never forgive him.’

‘I was always fond of my Aunt Eleanor. I think she loved him dearly.’

‘I remember that marriage well. Conducted in secrecy. Your father was furious when he discovered that Simon de Montfort had married his sister.’

‘But he knew of the wedding. He attended it.’

‘Only because Simon had seduced your aunt and he thought it best in the circumstances.’

Margaret looked at her mother. That was not true, of course. King Henry had consented to the marriage because his sister had persuaded him into it, and afterwards, when he saw what a storm it aroused, he had pretended it was because Simon had seduced her first.

But her mother had always believed what she wanted to and contradiction on such matters displeased her.

‘I wonder where they are now,’ she asked.

‘Who? The de Montforts? In exile in France, I believe. They had better not try to come back here.’

‘You mean Simon’s wife and daughter? What of her sons?’

‘Young Simon is dead. He deserved to die the traitor’s death but God took him instead. He was guilty of murder with his brother Guy who is the worst of them all. You know how they most brutally murdered your cousin, Henry of Cornwall, in a church at Viterbo. Oh, that was wicked. It broke your Uncle Richard’s heart. He adored Henry and Henry was a good man, faithful and loyal to your father and to your brother Edward.’

‘I know, my lady. He and Edward were brought up together – with the de Montfort boys. I remember seeing them together in the days before my marriage.’

‘There has been much tragedy in our family, Margaret.’

‘I know, my lady. But now Edward is home and the people love him. Perhaps we shall live peacefully.’

‘There is perpetual trouble. I shall not feel happy while these de Montforts live.’

‘I am sorry to have reminded you of them.’

‘Saints indeed! There was never one less saintly than Simon de Montfort.’

‘It is a pity he was killed so brutally.’

‘It was in battle. His side would have done the same to your father or Edward had they been the victors.’

‘I suppose Guy and the young Simon thought they were avenging him. It is understandable. It would be best if it could all be forgotten.’

‘My dearest Margaret, you were always the peacemaker. I should like to hear that the de Montforts were all dead. I like not to remember that Guy still lives and his brother Almeric too. He is with his mother, I believe, and the girl Eleanor. They call her the Demoiselle. It is a good idea. There are too many Eleanors in our family.’

‘’Tis true, lady. There is yourself and now Edward’s wife and Edward’s daughter and our aunt who married de Montfort and de Montfort’s daughter … I am so pleased I called my daughter Margaret.’

‘Which, my love, means that she can so easily be confused with her mother.’

‘I know, but Alexander wanted the name.’

The Queen Mother took her daughter’s face in her hands and kissed it. ‘I know. He loves you so well, and would have your daughter named for you. I’ll warrant he tells himself she is growing up exactly like you.’

‘How did you guess?’

The Queen Mother laughed happily. Her anger, aroused by the reference to the de Montforts, had evaporated.

‘Because, my dearest, he has the look of a happy husband. Now tell me, how did you think Beatrice was looking?’

‘Very well.’

‘She has given me five little grandchildren. I am very proud of her.’

‘I am sorry, dear Mother, that I have fallen short of that number.’

‘My dearest child, all I ask of you is that you are happy. You have my three little darlings and that contents me well. I’ll warrant Beatrice is with Edward’s wife. I hear they became great friends in Acre.’

‘Edward is fortunate in his Queen, my lady. She seems so gentle and devoted to him.’

‘She is a good wife. She thinks he is the most wonderful being on earth. She does exactly as he says all the time. I was never like that.’

‘I am sure Edward appreciates it.’

‘Your father appreciated me and yet I always had my own opinions.’

‘Dearest lady mother, you cannot expect everyone to be like you.’

The Queen Mother laughed.

She felt she was nearer happiness than she had been since Henry’s death.

‘Let us go and find Beatrice,’ she said. ‘There is so much I want to say to her. I have you so rarely to myself that I grudge every moment that is spent away from me.’

Dear Mother, thought Margaret, she cannot bear any of us to care for anyone more than we care for her.

There was excitement throughout the capital which extended to the whole of the country. A king was about to be crowned and soothsayers declared that a new age of prosperity was coming to the country.

The last two reigns had been uneasy ones – the first disastrous and the second slightly less so. Two weak kings had governed the country, now a strong man had come, a man who looked like a king, who acted like a king and having just returned from a campaign to the Holy Land would have the seal of God’s approval on him.

Great days were in store for England.

Stories were told throughout the countryside of his strength and prowess. His Queen was a good and virtuous woman. The account of how she had sucked the poison from his wound was repeated. They forgot that she came from a foreign land and that they had laughed at her followers when she had first arrived in the country. Little dark people whom they said resembled monkeys. Now she had grown into a beautiful woman. She had cast away her foreign manners. She was English and a fitting wife for the great King.

Edward had said that there should be hospitality for all at his coronation. He wanted the people to know that he was going to introduce just laws, that he was determined to make his country prosperous. Already he had settled that irritating matter of the wool with the foreign traders. He believed that the people should be allowed to carry on their peaceful trades and only be asked for money when the country needed it.

For once though there should be a lavish spectacle. The London merchants were willing to pay to see their King ceremoniously crowned. It was right that there should be celebrations for this was the beginning of a new era.

Wooden buildings were erected in the palace yards. On these food was going to be cooked, for none should go empty on this great day. There were no roofs on these buildings; they were open to the sky that the smoke of the fires should escape. Here, announced Edward, food would be served to all those who came to the city – no matter who. Men of the country would eat with London merchants, and apprentices and anyone could eat as the King’s guest – rich and poor alike, wealthy tradesmen and beggars. For fourteen days there should be this feasting. And on the day of the coronation the conduits and the fountains should flow with red and white wine.

Everyone must be aware that this was a time for rejoicing.

There was no murmur from the people. This was a different sort of celebration from those arranged by the new King’s father. Henry had given lavish banquets it was true, but they had always been for his friends and relations. But at King Edward’s table there would be just the good plain food which was served to his people. He wanted them to know that he was not a man to set great store by feasting and drinking and the wearing of fine clothes. His pleasure would be in a prosperous land and a happy people.

Perhaps he was subtly saying that they would find him different from his father. If he was, this was just what his people wanted to hear.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Kilwardby, had arrived at Westminster to officiate at the coronation. Edward considered that he was fortunate in his premier archbishop. It was not that he had any great affection for him. Far from it. They had nothing in common. But Kilwardby, unlike many of his predecessors, was not a man to attempt to interfere in state matters. Something of a pedant and a scholar he was more likely to be concerned with points of grammar than the country’s policies. A scholar who had taught for many years in Paris as a master of arts, one time prior of the Dominicans, he was not a man who saw himself as rival ruler to the King.

‘Let us thank God for our Archbishop,’ said Edward to his Queen.

And so, side by side, Edward and Eleanor his Queen were crowned to the acclamation of the people, and after the ceremony they made their way to the great hall of Westminster where the feast had been prepared.

The royal pair wore the crowns which had so recently been placed on their heads, and Edward whispered to his Queen that he wondered how she was managing to support hers and trusting it was not too uncomfortable. She assured him that she could endure it, and she was overcome with emotion to think how fortunate she was, and she did not mean in becoming the crowned queen of such a country but in being given such a husband.

‘I vow,’ Edward whispered to her, ‘that once I can take it off my head I shall not wear it again in a hurry.’

‘You are still a king, Edward, and seen to be such, without your crown.’

He pressed her hand and amid the acclamation of the spectators took his place in the chair of state on the dais.

Now was the time for his subjects to do homage to him.

First came the King of Scotland – Alexander, husband to his sister Margaret. A fine figure of a man, this Alexander, a man of courage and pride. He had made it clear that he was not here to do homage to Edward as King of Scotland for one king did not bow the knee to another – but merely to recognise that Edward was his liege lord in relation to the land he, Alexander, held in England. Fair enough, Edward had said; and he was glad to have the King of Scots as an ally.

Alexander, whose kingdom was smaller than that of England, had by the very nature of kings to make a brave show of his power and riches and there was no one in the entire company more splendidly accoutred than he was. Edward had smiled to see his mother’s eyes sparkle at the contemplation of her son-in-law of Scotland. Any show of extravagance delighted her. She would have liked to see this occasion far more splendid. She would have to be cured, thought Edward. As for Alexander, he would doubtless have to face lean times to pay for the show he had made at the King of England’s coronation.

So Alexander rode into the hall accompanied by one hundred of his knights only slightly less splendidly garbed than himself, and when he came to the dais on which Edward was seated, he dismounted, throwing the reins on the neck of his horse so that it was loose to wander where it would. His knights did the same so that one hundred and one horses made their way out of the hall to where the people were crowding to see the ceremony.

The King of Scotland had it proclaimed that any who could catch the horses who would be discarded by his company might keep them. There were shouts of joy as the horses came out and were seized by the lucky ones who could catch them.

Not to be outdone in this lavish gesture and determined that the Scots might not have all the credit for such unparalleled generosity, the King’s brother, Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, who was also followed into the hall by one hundred knights, did the same. Then the Earls of Gloucester, Pembroke and Warenne let their horses free so that the most memorable event of that coronation day for the people was that five hundred valuable horses were let loose to become the property of any who could catch them.

But there was one other event which was of greater importance and Edward was deeply conscious of it.

One by one the great dukes, earls and barons came to swear their allegiance to the King but there was one notable absentee.

Edward caught the eye of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, who murmured, ‘I see not Llewellyn of Wales, my lord.’

‘And for a good reason, sir Earl. He is not here. What means this, think you?’

‘Defiance of the royal command, my lord.’

‘Trouble to come, Gilbert.’

‘It would seem so, my lord. But it is but a little chieftain of Wales.’

Edward nodded. All very well to refer to him as that. It was true up to a point but Wales like Scotland had long been a source of irritation – and worse – to Edward’s predecessors, and he had hoped that if he showed himself willing to be friendly, he might win the confidence of these people. And now Llewellyn had openly disobeyed the summons to come to the coronation. Edward could be sure that he was not the only one who had noted this – and many present would be aware of its significance.

A curse on Llewellyn!

But this was his coronation and he must feign to be merry and full of hope for the future. He must not allow it to be seen that the absence of a pert Welsh chieftain disturbed him.

But it was on his mind during the feasting which followed the allegiance ceremony. Very merry were those in the hall, and equally so those outside who danced and sang in the streets and grew intoxicated on the King’s free-flowing wine. Those who had acquired valuable horses were ready to die for the King … at least on coronation day.

The people happy; the future bright. What more could a king ask?

His Queen beside him – happy in his triumph, his mother pleased but comparing this with her own coronation which had been far more lavish, his family gathered about him – he should be content.

But he was too much of a king to be able to brush aside the fact that trouble could be brewing on the Welsh border.

When the company was getting drowsy through the wine, the heat and the merry-making, Edward was alert, still thinking of the Welsh defaulter. Gloucester, Pembroke and Warenne were aware of this.

‘Even had he come to the coronation we could not have been sure that he would not have gone back and made trouble,’ commented Warenne.

‘He could scarcely have done that after giving his oath,’ Edward reminded him. ‘At least not yet.’

‘’Tis better to know where we stand with him.’

‘How can we ever know where we stand with the Welsh?’ demanded Edward. ‘Give them opportunity and they are ready to go to war. Hasn’t it always been so?’

‘Since the days of the Conqueror,’ agreed Warenne.

‘And before,’ added Edward. ‘They can swoop on our lands, attack and then scuttle back into their mountains. You mentioned the Conqueror. He tried to stop it. He even ventured into Wales with an army. Then – great warrior that he was – he realised that because of its mountainous nature, to conquer that land would cost more in lives and wealth and time than it was worth. So he contented himself with forays and little wars which have been going on ever since. I see no reason to go against his judgement. He was a wise man, that ancestor of mine. He had a genius for strategy. He decided to make that strip of land through which all armies had to pass – the English or the Welsh to reach each other – a no man’s land. Then he set up those barons who have become known as the Marcher Barons, and in exchange for the lands he bestowed upon them they must guard the country and be responsible for keeping the Welsh in order. This state of affairs has been going on for two hundred years. I see no reason why it should be changed.’

‘And what has happened?’ asked Gilbert. ‘The Marcher Barons control the land and they, like the Welsh, have become a law unto themselves. They see themselves as apart from allegiance to any, even to you, my lord.’

‘That’s true,’ said Edward. ‘And since Llewellyn sees fit to flout me thus it occurs to me that it may be necessary for me to settle this question of the Welsh once and for all.’

‘Ah, if that could be done, my lord, I doubt not it would be good for England and for Wales,’ said Pembroke. ‘But is it possible?’

‘My lord,’ replied Edward, ‘nothing is possible to those who think it impossible. The first rule when undertaking a difficult task is to stop saying “I can’t” and say “I will”.’

The lords nodded agreement and Warenne said, ‘Llewellyn has become very friendly with the de Montforts.’

‘I know that and I like it not,’ replied Edward. ‘The de Montforts caused enough trouble to my father. I am determined they shall not cause it to me.’

‘There are two of his sons left and one daughter,’ commented Warenne.

Edward nodded. ‘Henry died with his father at Evesham as we know, and Simon died in Italy soon after the murder of my cousin. By God, I shall never forgive them for what they did to Henry. They are cursed and doomed for that for ever. To murder him, so vilely while he knelt at his prayers … my cousin Henry! You know my feelings for him. He was my companion … come to that we were all companions in the royal nursery – Henry of Cornwall, the cousin I loved the best, and those others … cousins also … the de Montfort children. Henry of Cornwall was a man of outstanding nobility. I learned much from him, for he was those few years older than I which are so important when one is young. I looked up to him. There was a time when I was wild and foolish, when I was capable of senseless cruelty. Thank God my cousin Henry showed me the folly of that. I owe him much, and when I think of him as he must have been kneeling at the altar and those wicked men creeping up on him … when I think of the foul and obscene things they did to his corpse after they had murdered him, I cry vengeance on those who carried out this wicked crime. I say a curse on de Montfort.’

‘As those who saw the same done to the bodies of Simon de Montfort and his son Henry cried on you and yours,’ said Gilbert who could never resist making a logical comment even if he put his life in danger through making it.

But Edward was a logical man himself. ‘True,’ he said shortly. ‘True. But I had no hand in the murder of Simon de Montfort. He died in battle. That he was mutilated afterwards was the fortune of war. But to take this good and noble man as he knelt in prayer! No, Gilbert, I’ll not have it. A curse on the de Montforts … the whole family … even my aunt who became one through her secret marriage.’

‘Your feelings are easy to understand, my lord,’ said Warenne. ‘And it is the de Montforts we have to guard against.’

‘Guy is a murderer and despised as such,’ said the King. ‘He will not prosper. But my cousins Almeric and Eleanor live in exile with my aunt and there is a rumour that Llewellyn is enamoured of my cousin Eleanor.’

‘It is so!’ said Gilbert. ‘She is royal, for her mother is King Henry’s sister, and Llewellyn and she it is said fell deeply in love.’

‘She was a beautiful girl when I last saw her,’ said Edward.

‘Nurtured as she must have been, how would she feel towards the rough mountain chieftain?’ wondered Pembroke.

‘I heard that she was as taken with Llewellyn as he with her and that pledges were made between them. Of course she is in exile and cannot come here and he – rebel chieftain that he is – is in no position to bring her. Thus are true lovers kept apart.’ Edward’s mouth was firm. ‘And shall remain so.’

‘Unless of course …’ began Gilbert.

‘Unless, my lord?’ Edward interrupted. ‘I guess what you will say. Unless we can use my cousin, the Demoiselle Eleanor, as a bargaining counter to bring Llewellyn to heel.’

‘If that were possible it would be a good plan.’

‘It would indeed,’ said Edward. ‘I think we are noticed. Our serious conversation gives an impression that we are holding a council of war.’

‘Which in a way we are, my lord,’ added Gilbert.

‘And that is no way in which to conduct a coronation. Let us ask the minstrels to sing.’

The coronation festivities continued. There was no more popular man in the city of London than the King. He was strong, said the people. He would not be a man to be ruled by his wife; nor was she a woman to seek to rule.

All knew that the late King had been ruled by his wife and she had been the one they hated; though they despised the King. But this was a new era.

This King was just. The matter of the bridge confirmed their belief in him.

A party of London citizens had asked leave to see the King during that period of coronation celebrations and he, knowing full well the importance of his capital, agreed to receive their leaders and hear what they had to say.

The head of the party bowed low before the King and when asked what troubled him he explained that it was the state of London Bridge.

‘My lord King,’ said the man, ‘it has fallen into such a state of decay that it is scarcely safe.’

‘Then this must be rectified without delay,’ cried the King. ‘Why has it not been done?’

‘My lord, repairs are made from the revenue received from the custody of the bridge and have previously been done regularly that the bridge may be kept in good order.’

‘Then why has it not been done now?’

There was silence and the King urged them to continue.

‘My lord, the King your father gave the custody of the bridge to the Queen your mother that she might enjoy the revenues therefrom. Since then the lady Queen has collected the dues and careth nothing for the state of the bridge.’

Edward felt a surge of anger against his mother. He knew that he need not verify the statement. Was this not exactly what his mother had been doing since she had come to the country? Was this not the reason for her unpopularity and that of his father and would she never understand that it was deeds such as this which had brought them within sight of losing their crowns.

He restrained the outburst which rose to his lips and replied, ‘My friends, you may leave this matter to me. I can tell you this. The bridge shall be repaired and its upkeep shall in future be looked after from the dues received.’

Exultant by his quick grasp of the situation and believing in his promise, for he was already gaining a reputation of being a man of his word, the deputation left and among their friends sang the praise of the new King who would undoubtedly bring a return of just rule to the country.

The Queen Mother was with her daughter and she had just heard the joyous news from Beatrice that she was pregnant again.

As Edward entered she cried, ‘Dear Edward, do come and join us. I have such good news.’

Edward found it difficult to curb his temper. He had a share of that defect of the Plantagenets, but he had told himself that he must learn to keep it under control. It needed all his willpower to do this now.

‘Your sister Beatrice is going to have another child.’

He took Beatrice’s hand and kissed it. ‘Congratulations, sister,’ he said. ‘I’ll warrant John is pleased.’

‘Oh yes, but he always gets anxious. He says we have five and should be content.’

The Queen Mother laughed indulgently. Nothing pleased her more than to hear of the devotion of her daughter’s husband.

‘I wish I could keep you here, Beatrice, until the child is born.’

She looked at Margaret and they smiled, recalling the time when they had deluded the Scottish nobles and Margaret had stayed in England to be with her mother when her daughter was born.

‘If it is a girl,’ said Beatrice, ‘I shall call her Eleanor after you, dearest Mother.’

The Queen Mother laughed. ‘Not another Eleanor in the family! My dearest love, it is confusing enough now.’

‘Still, there is no one whose name I would rather my child had than yours.’

‘It was a good thing I named my girl Margaret,’ said the Queen of Scotland. ‘But I threaten that if I should ever have another daughter she will be an Eleanor too.’

The Queen Mother was gratified but anxious immediately. ‘My darling, I hope there will be no more. You suffered too much when David was born. If you girls only knew what I go through when you have your children you would vow never to have any more. I wait for the messengers … and they are always so tardy.’

‘Oh, my dearest mother,’ cried Margaret, ‘you must remember that we are no longer children.’

Edward was drawn into this family circle in spite of himself. They had all had a wonderful childhood, so different from most royal children. He must always remember – however exasperated he became by his mother’s fecklessness – that they had enjoyed a happy family circle.

Edward whispered to Margaret, ‘I have something of importance to discuss with our mother.’

‘I will take Beatrice with me to your lady wife,’ said Margaret. ‘She will want to hear about the baby.’

‘Yes, do,’ said Edward.

When he was alone with his mother he assumed a grave manner.

‘I have had a complaint, my lady,’ he told her, ‘from the citizens of London.’

‘Those tiresome people! How dare they complain at the time of your coronation! Have they not been given so much … free wine, banquets …’

‘Free wine and banquets will not repair London Bridge, my lady.’

‘London Bridge! What has that to do with the coronation?’

‘If it were to collapse it would be remembered as the outstanding event of this coronation for years to come.’

‘Collapse! Why should it?’

‘Because it is in need of repairs and the dues collected partly for that purpose have been used for other things.’

‘What things?’

‘You know that better than I for you have had them and misspent this money.’

‘I never heard such nonsense. In your father’s day …’

‘My lady, this is not my father’s day. It is mine, and I would have you know that I will not have money which is meant to repair my bridge spent on other things.’

‘Your father gave me the custody of the bridge for six years …’

‘And since that time the bridge has become a danger to the public. Will you never learn? Did the rising of the barons mean nothing to you?’

‘The barons have been defeated.’

‘The barons will never be defeated, my lady, while they represent the will of the people, and only when that is in his favour can a king rule.’

‘Your father did very well without it.’

‘That is not the verdict of the world, alas. My father tried to rule without it, and because of this only the greatest good luck kept him his crown and you will remember well, my mother, that he came within a very short distance of losing it. Have you forgotten those days when he and I were the prisoners of Simon de Montfort and you went to France as a begger to your sister’s court and tried to raise money for an army to free us?’

The Queen Mother wiped her eyes. ‘Do you think I shall ever forget the saddest time of my life when I and your father were separated?’

‘I trust you never will and that you will remember how easily it came about. The people would not brook your extravagance, your spending of money raised in taxation on yourself and your friends and relations.’

‘Edward! How dare you! And you my son! Whose side are you on? That of the crown or the rebel barons?’

‘There must be no sides, my lady. I am on the side of justice. I am going to see wrong put right. I am going to bring this country back to prosperity and belief in its sovereign. And I am going to begin by repairing London Bridge and taking the custody of it out of your hands.’

‘Edward … how can you do this to me!’

He went to her and laid his hands on her shoulders, for he loved her dearly and there were so many memories that stayed with him of childhood days when she had been his comfort and his solace and to be with her and his father had been the greatest treat of his childhood. ‘I can because I must. Dear Mother, you know of my love for you, but I am first a king and I mean to rule. I love you now as I ever did and never shall I forget your devotion to me and my dear father. But I cannot allow you to place my crown in jeopardy as you did that of my father. For that reason I act as I must and as I see it that is the right and just way to act.’

‘So you would humiliate me in the eyes of these rapacious Londoners.’

‘You will win only honour by discontinuing with this custody. And these Londoners are not rapacious because they wish to see their bridge repaired.’

‘If they want it repaired let them pay for it.’

‘It is exactly what they are doing. You know that part of the dues paid are for the upkeep of the bridge.’

‘I am disappointed in you, Edward.’

‘I am sorry for that but, if in pleasing you I must disappoint my subjects and deny them justice then, dear lady, I must perforce displease you.’

She looked at him – so handsome, so noble, and she suddenly forgot everything but her pride in him. She leaned against him and he put his arms about her.

He kissed her hair.

‘Dear Mother,’ he said softly, ‘I could not bear that we should be bad friends.’

‘You are a stubborn fellow, Edward,’ she said fondly. ‘Strange it is that I would not have you other than you are. But I miss your father so much, my son. I shall never cease to mourn.’

‘I know,’ said Edward. ‘I mourn him too.’

‘You are not like him. He was so fond …’

Fondness, thought the King, often went with foolishness and that was something a king could not afford.

Leaving his mother he went to his wife. He thanked God for Eleanor. How different she was from her mother-in-law. He could never have borne a domineering wife, but it was clear that a weak man needed a strong woman beside him. And he was now admitting to himself that his father was one of the weakest men he had ever known. A king must face up to the truth. He must learn his lessons and the first lesson of all was that until truth was looked straight in the face and admitted – however disagreeable – no progress would be made.

‘Edward,’ said the Queen anxiously, ‘you look a little distraught.’

‘An unpleasant matter.’ He told her of the bridge and how his mother had been using the funds for the wrong purposes.

‘I had to do what I did.’

‘Indeed you had.’

‘She was hurt. I think at first she thought I was some sort of traitor to the family.’

‘You, a traitor! That’s quite impossible. You are so wise … so strong. You always do the right thing.’

He smiled at her fondly. ‘I know that whatever I do I shall have the support of my wife.’

‘But that is only right and natural.’

He took her hand and kissed it.

‘I have something to tell you,’ she said.

‘Eleanor. You are with child?’

She nodded and he took her into his arms. ‘This time,’ he said, ‘let us pray for a boy. I’ll have prayers said throughout the churches.’

‘Not yet, I beg of you. It is too early. I am always afraid when I speak of it too soon that something will go wrong.’

‘My dearest, why should it?’

‘There was John and the little one at Acre.’

‘My dear lady, many children die. John was delicate. Some children are born that way. As for the little one at Acre, that was not to be wondered at after all the hardships. And what of young Joanna, eh? She was always lively enough though Acre was her birthplace.’

‘I wish she were with us.’

‘Your mother will not willingly part with her. And you will have this new one. We have our darling Eleanor. What a handsome girl she is becoming! And little Henry …’

The Queen was grave. ‘I worry about him a great deal.’

‘I thought he seemed better.’

She shook her head.

‘Oh come, my love, he is a bright little fellow.’

‘He is so breathless and he always seems to have a cough. Edward, I don’t care for the Tower of London. It’s so cold and draughty and there is an atmosphere of gloom about the place.’

‘It was built as a fortress of course,’ said Edward. ‘And it seems like it.’

‘The Palace of the Tower depresses me, Edward. I do not think that Henry will thrive while he is there. I want to find a place which is more healthy for the children and with the new baby I want to be especially careful. I keep thinking of little John and wondering whether if I had been here …’

‘Pray do not let my mother hear you say that. She dotes on the children and as you know will scarcely let them out of her sight. She is half elated, half apprehensive, about Beatrice’s news. She would love to have them all here under her care.’

‘I know of course that she did everything possible for young John and I don’t suppose there was anything I could have done to save him. But I do want to choose a home for the children and I want it to be a healthy place. Somewhere in the country.’

‘I will tell you what we must do,’ said Edward. ‘When all the coronation ceremonies are over we shall go down to Windsor. I have a fancy that that will be the place you will choose.’

‘Oh Edward, you are so good to me.’

Edward again took her into his arms and stroked her beautiful long dark hair. He compared her as he often had with his mother and thanked God for giving him such a wife.

The excitement of the coronation had not improved little Henry’s condition. Or it might have been that the disease which was robbing him of his strength was moving towards its climax. In any case there was an obvious decline in his health.

The Queen Mother was thrown into a state of great anxiety – even more so than the Queen, whose pregnancy seemed to have endowed her with a certain serenity. But the Queen Mother had now convinced herself that Margaret had not looked as well as she should, and she confided in the Queen that she had had a talk with Alexander who shared her anxiety.

The treatment Margaret had received when she had first gone to Scotland as a child bride had had an effect on her health from which she had never fully recovered. And now that little Henry showed signs of growing weaker the Queen Mother feared that God had turned His face from the royal family.

Death did not come singly, she said. Little John had been followed very quickly by her dear husband and ever since then she had been fearful for her darlings.

Edward ordered that several sheep should be freshly slaughtered so that the little boy could be wrapped in their skins. This was considered to be good for those who suffered from shivering fits because the animal heat was calculated to supply the warmth a sick person lacked.

More wax images of his body were made and taken to various shrines to be placed there and burned in oil. A hundred poor widows were engaged that they might perform vigils in the churches praying for his recovery. The physicians were on constant attention and either the Queen or the Queen Mother kept vigil at his bedside.

They talked of what it could be that ailed him. Little John had suffered in the same way. The child seemed to shrink and grow more and more listless every day.

‘Why does this happen to the boys?’ demanded the Queen.

‘It is almost like a curse,’ the Queen Mother said. ‘I wonder sometimes whether it has anything to do with the de Montforts.’

‘Why be so cruel to a little boy?’

‘Because that little boy could one day be King perhaps.’

‘I hate the Tower,’ said the Queen. ‘It fills me with dread. I cannot bear to think of my children living there. Edward has said I may choose where I like and we shall have our home there, but of course the King must move around and I believe it is well that we should all be together. I think I shall choose Windsor. Do you think that would be healthier for Henry?’

‘I am sure of it, my dear. Have you visited Windsor recently?’

‘No, but I mean to. It has been so necessary for us to be here in Westminster for the celebrations.’

The Queen Mother’s eyes were momentarily glazed as she recalled her own coronation. She had been brought to the Palace of the Tower and she had not noticed that it was gloomy; perhaps that was because her coronation had been more splendid than any and she had been well aware of the shining approval in her husband’s eyes. Oh, to be young again, to go back to all that glory, with the knowledge that she was clever and above all so beautiful that her husband adored her! This mild little creature – good as she was – could know nothing of the happiness which had come to Eleanor of Provence.

And now anxieties beset her. Edward was her dear son but he was stern with her, reprimanding her for spending a little money. Edward had no idea how to live graciously. She did hope he was not going to develop parsimonious ways. And she was worried about little Henry who was going exactly as young John had gone, wasting away, and she knew that wherever they moved would make no difference. And what of Margaret who had never fully regained her strength; and Beatrice was pregnant, and she was always afraid when they had children. She was growing sick with worry.

She let the Queen talk about the advantages of Windsor over Westminster. There was no point in frightening the poor girl with her own fears.

She herself talked of Windsor and how her husband had loved it.

‘He strengthened the defences,’ she said, ‘and rebuilt the western wall. You must see the curfew tower, my dear. He had that built. He had a genius for architecture and how he loved it. If the people had not been so foolish and made such a nuisance of themselves whenever he wanted to spend a little money in beautifying castles, he would have done so much more.’

‘I like Windsor,’ said the Queen, ‘I like the river and I think the air will be fresh and good for Henry.’

‘I doubt it not. My husband always said it was. I think it was his favourite place. How we talked and grew excited about the changes he made there! He insisted on murals and they were always of a religious nature. He was a very pious man. Oh so good he was! He loved the colour green. He liked blue and purple too. You soon realise that when you go into those rooms. It was just after our marriage that he made such changes to the castle. “For you, my dear,” he said, “and if there is something you do not like you must tell me.” He made chambers overlooking the cloisters and he had a herb garden made for me … Oh yes, my dear, you will be happy at Windsor.’

‘I feel that I shall be. As soon as I feel that Henry is strong enough for the journey I shall take him there.’

Alas, each day the child seemed to grow weaker and the Queen was in a quandary. Should she take him away to the country or would it be wiser to leave him where he was? In the meantime she engaged more widows for the vigils and more images were burned in oil.

The journey to Windsor would be so long but the Queen felt the need to take the child away from London so she arranged to go with him to Merton Priory and there prayers could be offered up for his recovery. ‘It might be,’ she pointed out to Edward, ‘that if they are in a holy place God might listen to us.’

So she took the little boy to Merton Priory, which being not far from Westminster, meant that the journey was not too strenuous. As for the child, he was quite happy to go as long as she was with him.

‘There,’ she told him, ‘you are going to get well. You are going to grow into a big strong boy.’

‘Like my father?’ he asked.

‘Exactly like him,’ she assured him.

But she wished that she had taken him to Windsor. How pleasant for the little boy to have been in those rooms made beautiful by his grandfather. She could have told him the stories of the pictures which adorned the walls. A priory was by its very nature a quiet place.

‘As soon as you are well,’ she told him, ‘we are going to Windsor.’

‘All of us?’ asked the little boy.

She nodded. ‘Your father, your grandmother, your sister and myself … we shall all be there and soon there will be another little brother or sister to join us. You will like that, Henry.’

Henry thought he would and he was clearly happy to be with his mother. He had never forgotten the long time she had been away from him.

‘When you are well …’ She was constantly using that phrase to him but each day when she rose, and even during the night, she would go to his little bed and assure herself that he had not already left them.

As the days passed she knew that Merton had nothing to offer him.

Perhaps, she thought, we should go back to Westminster.

But Henry never went back. One morning when she went to his bed she realised that the vigils of widows, the images in oil and the skins of the freshly killed sheep had been of no avail.

The little Prince had gone as his brother John had before him.

Her spirits were buoyed up by the child she was carrying.

Edward said, ‘It will be a boy, you see. God has taken Henry but he will give us another boy. I am sure of it, my love.’

Edward was upset but not as deeply as she and the Queen Mother were. A deep depression settled on the latter.

‘Nothing goes right for me since the King died,’ she complained.

Those about her might have said that nothing had gone right for others while he lived, but they dared not to her.

It was almost as though she had had a premonition of disaster for, shortly after the death of the little Prince, a messenger came from Scotland with the news which she had been dreading.

Alexander had sent him to tell her that Margaret was very ill indeed, and that when they had returned to Scotland after the coronation her health had taken a turn for the worse.

The Queen Mother, frantic with grief, was ready to start immediately to her daughter, but Edward restrained her.

‘Nay, Mother,’ he said, ‘you must not go. Stay awhile. There will be more news later.’

‘Not go? When my own daughter is ill and needs me? You know that when Margaret was a prisoner in that miserable castle of Edinburgh I urged your father to leave at once that we might go to her. Do you think he tried to detain me?’

‘No, dear Mother, I know he did not. But this … this is different.’

‘Different! How different? If a child of mine needs me that is where I shall be.’

He looked at her sadly and the horrible truth dawned on her.

‘There is something else,’ she said slowly. ‘They have not told me the truth …’ She went to him and laid her hands on his chest. ‘Edward,’ she said quietly, ‘tell me.’

He drew her to him and held her fast in his arms.

‘There is something else. I know it,’ she cried.

She heard him say what she dreaded to hear. ‘Yes, dear Mother, it is true that there is something else. I wanted it to be broken gently.’

‘So … she is gone … my Margaret … gone.’

‘Alexander is heart-broken. He had summoned the best physicians, the most noble prelates to her bedside. There was nothing that could be done. She went peacefully – our dear Margaret. She is at rest now.’

‘But she was so young … my little girl … just a child.’

‘She was thirty-four years old, my lady.’

‘It is too young to die … too young … too young … They are all dying … yet I am left.’

‘And will be with us for many years to come, praise God,’ said Edward. ‘I understand your grief. I share it. Pray let me take you to your chamber. Shall I send the Queen to you? She has a rare gentleness for times like this.’

‘First tell me.’

‘I know only that she had been ailing for some weeks. She was never really strong.’

‘I know that well. They undermined her health, those wicked men up there. I shall never forgive the Scots for this. She should have stayed with me. We should never have let her go.’

‘She had her life to live. She had her husband and her children. She loved Alexander dearly and he her. She was happy in Scotland once they grew up and were together. Let us thank God that she did not suffer. Alexander says her death was peaceful in the castle of Cupar. They had gone to Fife for a short sojourn, and there she had to take to her bed. Alexander says that she was buried with great ceremony in Dumfermline and that the whole of Scotland weeps for her.’

‘My daughter … my child …’ mourned the Queen. ‘I loved her so much, Edward. She was my favourite child after she went to Scotland. I shall never forget the anguish we suffered when we heard of her plight. And now she is dead … Her poor children! How they will miss her … And Alexander … He loved her I know. Who could help loving Margaret …’

‘I will take you to my wife,’ said Edward gently. ‘She will know how to comfort you better than I.’

While the Court was mourning the death of Queen Margaret of Scotland Beatrice gave birth to a daughter.

It was a difficult confinement and the physicians thought that the shock of her sister’s death had affected Beatrice adversely, and for this reason her own health began to fail.

Fortunately for the Queen Mother she could be with this daughter, but this brought little comfort to her because she realised that Beatrice seemed to be in the same kind of failing health from which Margaret had suffered.

Beatrice coughed a great deal; she was easily fatigued and a terrible premonition seized the Queen Mother.

‘Has God truly deserted me?’ she asked her daughter-in-law.

The Queen replied that she must not despair. Beatrice had her dear little daughter whom she had named Eleanor as she said she would and very soon she would recover. She had had five children before the new baby and had come satisfactorily through the ordeals.

But Beatrice’s health did not improve and her husband grew more and more concerned.

The Queen Mother warmed to him when he talked to her of his fears. He truly loved her. That much was obvious and she knew then that that was something for which she should be grateful. All her children had made happy marriages, and they were rare enough, particularly in royal circles, and she believed it was clue to the example she and their father had set them. ‘One thing we taught them,’ she told Lady Mortimer, one of her closest friends, ‘was the joy of family life and how when it is ideal there is nothing on this earth to compare with the happiness it brings.’

But what John of Brittany had to say to her gave her no comfort.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘Beatrice’s health was impaired in the Holy Land. She should never have gone, but she insisted and maybe she will be blessed for it, but I am deeply concerned for her. The dampness of the climate here aggravates her chest. I want to take her back to her home in Brittany and that without delay.’

The Queen Mother was silent. Her heart cried out against this. Beatrice was her great comfort now that she had lost Margaret. In looking after this daughter she could find some solace. But if she went away, how lonely she would be! And yet, she had seen her daughter’s health deteriorate, and it might well be that John was right. Certainly he was looking at her now with such poignant pleading that she found it impossible to protest.

‘She longs to be with her children,’ said John. ‘She is torn between you and them. She often reproaches herself for having left them to accompany me on the crusade. I believe that if I took her to our home she might recover.’

Whatever the Queen Mother’s faults she had never failed to do what was best for her children.

Sorrowing, she took her farewell of her remaining daughter.

She tried not to worry about Beatrice. John had assured her that he would send frequent messengers to her with news of her daughter’s health. She would let herself believe that a rest in her own home would be good for Beatrice although she believed in her heart that if Margaret had stayed in her care instead of going back to that bleak Scotland she would have nursed her back to health.

She turned her attention to her granddaughter Eleanor who had to be comforted for the loss of her little brother Henry. Young as she was they would soon have to consider her betrothal in some quarter from which good could come to England. Then there was the Queen who was growing larger every week and must soon give birth – pray God a son this time. If she had a boy that would lift the spirits of them all. It would show that Heaven had not completely turned against them. For with so many cruel deaths one began to wonder. ‘Oh God, send us a boy,’ prayed the Queen Mother; and being herself she could not help adding: ‘You owe that to us.’

Edward was deeply involved in matters of state. He was concerned about possible trouble on the Welsh border and these matters occupied him so much that he seemed to feel the family bereavement less than the Queen Mother expected.

‘He is not like his father,’ she mourned. But then who could be like that beloved man? Henry would have forgotten everything in his grief for his daughter. He never allowed state matters to come before his love of his family.

Her son Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, was preparing to leave for France. When he came to say goodbye to her she could scarcely restrain her emotion.

‘It seems as though you are all going away,’ she mourned.

Edmund was of a merry nature. Light-hearted and popular with his friends – perhaps because he was notoriously generous – he lacked his brother’s seriousness. Of course he had not the responsibilities.

‘I shall be back ere long, dear lady,’ he assured her. ‘Back with my bride.’

‘Oh, Edmund, I trust she will be a good wife to you.’

‘I am sure of it,’ he said with characteristic optimism.

She looked at him with affection – the slightly stooping shoulders which had earned him unfairly the name of Crouchback endeared him to her. He was so much more vulnerable than Edward, and she was beginning to feel a certain resentment towards Edward because he showed so clearly that he did not need her and was not going to listen to her advice. That affair of the bridge had made a rift between them. He would always be her beloved son, of course, her firstborn, the most handsome young man she had ever seen – but he was showing clearly that he did not need her and she had always been at the very heart of her family. It is well for him, she thought, that he has a meek wife without a thought in her head but to say ‘yes, yes, yes’ to everything he wants. That suits him well. He would not tolerate a woman of spirit.

She smiled, thinking of her husband’s pride in her, how he would never have thought of acting without her. Oh Henry, Henry, if only you were with me now!

‘My dear son,’ she now said to Edmund, ‘be wary of the French. My sister married the French King and I have received help from them – mainly through her – but I would say be wary of them.’

‘Never fear. I shall be able to look after myself and my interests.’

‘There is nothing that can bring more comfort to the family. Tell me of Blanche, your wife-to-be, this daughter of Robert of Artois.’

‘And through him royal. As you know, her first husband was Henri Count of Champagne, and King of Navarre.’

‘She is a beautiful woman, I hear, and has already proved she can bear children.’

‘She has a daughter of her first marriage – Jeanne. I trust she and I will have sons and daughters.’

The Queen Mother nodded. ‘I remember Robert well. I was in France when my sister married the French King. That made a bond between France and England when I became your father’s bride. But although they said that my sister’s husband was a saint and indeed called him Saint Louis, I never trusted them. Your father was to learn many a bitter lesson through them.’

‘This will be a good marriage, dear Mother. Through Blanche, Champagne will come to me until Jeanne, her daughter, is of an age to inherit or to marry.’

‘And you will live there … away from us all?’

‘I shall travel back and forth. Do not imagine I shall be content to live in exile. I am going to bring my wife to England as soon as they have celebrated our marriage there. Rest assured you will be seeing me soon.’

‘I shall keep you to that promise, my son.’

‘If Edward needs me, you can be sure I shall be at his side.’

‘Remember that, my dear son. It is well for families to hold together.’

It was a sad day for her when he left. But she knew that it was good for him to go. He needed a wife. Perhaps it would have been better if Aveline de Fortibus had lived and inherited, but once again fate had been cruel to them.

She travelled down to Windsor with the Queen who was certain that that would be the ideal place to make their chief residence. It was not so very far from Westminster where the King would have to be so often and the air was good. Perhaps she would have the new baby there.

‘The late King was so fond of Windsor,’ said the Queen Mother as they rode side by side. She was thinking that soon the Queen would not be in a condition to ride and she had taken the precaution of ordering that there should be a litter available so that if the journey became too much for the Queen she should ride in it.

‘I will say if I am tired of course,’ said the Queen, ‘or if I feel the strain.’

‘No, my dear,’ said the Queen Mother, ‘I shall say when you are to ride for I am sure you may well be less careful of your health than I.’

It was typical of the Queen that she obeyed her mother-in-law and rode in the litter even when she had no inclination to do so.

‘Yes,’ went on the Queen Mother, ‘Henry was very fond of Windsor, though of course it was there that his father stayed when the barons behaved so badly and made him sign Magna Carta. Henry always said any reminder of that would be repugnant to him. All the same he made some wonderful additions. He enlarged the Lower Ward and added a most beautiful chapel. One would have thought that with all he did he and I would have been more fortunate. He was such a religious man.’

The Queen was silent. She was too tactful to point out what Edward had told her, which was that his father – good and beloved by his family as he was – had had little idea of the best way to rule.

The Queen marvelled at the beauty of the countryside – the green fields, the rich forest lands and the winding river Thames which flowed close by. This was the place she would choose for her children, and she fell to wondering if she might have saved little Henry had she brought him here.

At Windsor the Queen Mother was stricken yet again. She knew as soon as the messengers arrived from Brittany. The Queen came hurriedly to her and found her prostrate with grief.

It was as she had feared. Beatrice was dead. Weakened by the birth of a child from which she had never recovered and shattered by the news of her sister’s death, Beatrice had gone into a similar decline to that which had killed her sister, and in spite of her husband’s tireless efforts to make her well she had grown weaker every day.

Every known remedy had been used; the best of the physicians had been at her bedside – all to no avail.

Her body was being sent to England because that had been her wish. She had always wanted to be buried in the arch on the north wall of the choir in front of the altar in Christ Church in New Gate, that church which she herself had founded before her marriage.

It should be done, said John her husband, and her body was sent to England, but her heart had been removed and was to be placed in the Abbey of Fontevraud where her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, lay together with the remains of her great-uncle, Richard Coeur de Lion.

The Queen Mother was dazed with shock. She could not believe this had happened. So many deaths … such senseless deaths … in such a short time. It really did seem as though the hand of God was turned against her.

She shut herself in her apartments and stormed against the Almighty. Then she remembered her beloved husband who had been a deeply religious man and she knew how distressed he would be if he could hear her. That sobered her. ‘If this is my cross,’ she said, ‘then must I bear it. But when You took him You took away the best part of my life, and now You seem intent on taking what is left to me.’

It seemed as though God had taken heed of her railings and was indeed sorry for what He had done, for shortly after the funeral of Beatrice the Queen was brought to bed and to the joy of all she gave birth to a healthy son.

There was great rejoicing throughout the Court. It was a good omen. Little John and Henry had gone but the Queen was young and bore children without difficulty. And here was the boy they all wanted.

The Queen Mother came out of her mournful lethargy and began making plans for the child.

Edward was so delighted that, when the Queen, who rarely expressed a desire which was not Edward’s, said she would like to call him Alfonso after her father, he agreed.

The Queen Mother was astounded. ‘He should have been Edward. Is he not the heir to the throne? Alfonso! Do you think the English will ever welcome a King Alfonso?’

‘When he comes to the throne,’ said the King, ‘we shall have to give him a new name. In the meantime his mother particularly wants Alfonso and Alfonso it shall be.’

And as Alfonso thrived so did the hopes of the family. They had ridden out the storm of ill luck which had brought death to so many of them; they were now set fair and the journey ahead looked full of promise.